to a bare lightbulb set in a wall socket, which meant he was in the correct century, but there was nothing to indicate what the staircase was a part of or where it led. If anywhere. He’d already come down a hundred steps, and there was still no end in sight.
I should have gone up, he thought, making another turn in the spiral, and there below him was a door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” he said, his voice echoing in the narrow space, and opened the door.
Onto a mob scene. Scores of people scurrying past in both directions, women in knee-length frocks, men in Burberry, uniformed soldiers, sailors, WAAFs, Wrens, all of them walking quickly, purposefully down a brightly lit, low-ceilinged tunnel. There was an arrow painted on the wall and the words “To the trains,” and below it, with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction, “Way Out.”
This is an Underground station, he thought, and started down the tunnel toward a poster on the wall. “Do your bit for the war effort,” it read. “Buy Victory Bonds. Defeat Hitler.”
I made it. I’m actually here in London in World War II, he thought, grinning from ear to ear—an expression which was completely inappropriate for an air raid (and a war), but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And at any rate no one was paying any attention to him. They pushed past him, totally intent on getting wherever it was they were going—workmen in coveralls, businessmen with toothbrush mustaches and furled umbrellas, mothers with children in tow. And every one of them was wearing a hat. The men all had bowlers, fedoras, woolen caps.
He should have worn a hat. The rest of his clothes seemed all right, but he hadn’t realized how universal hats had been in this era. Even the little boys were wearing cloth caps. I’ll stand out like the impostor I am, he thought, searching the crowd for anyone with a bare head.
There was one—a blonde in a WVS uniform—and walking just behind her was a gray-haired man. He began to relax a bit. The man was carrying a pillow under his arm.
He must be one of the shelterers, he thought, though no one was sitting down or lying along the tunnel. Perhaps they only sleep out on the platforms, or this isn’t one of the stations they used for a shelter. Or they haven’t started using the stations yet.
Whenever this was. He’d set the net so he’d come through at 7 p.m. on September 16, 1940. I need to make certain I did, he thought, hurrying down the tunnel, and then remembered he’d need to be able to find his way back to the drop and went back to take a hard look at the door he’d come through. It was black-painted metal, stenciled in white: Stairs to Surface. To Be Used in Case of Emergency Only, which explained the seemingly endless number of steps. And the reason it had been empty.
Near the foot of the door someone had scratched “E.H.+ M.T.” He made a mental note of the initials, of a peeling corner on the Victory Bonds poster, and of a second poster reading Don’t Leave It to Others: Enroll Today. And a notice at the end of the tunnel that said Central Line.
But no mention of what station it was. He needed to find that out, and the date and time of day, before he did anything else. The time should be easy. Nearly everyone was wearing a watch, and he could ask about the station at the same time, but just as he was about to tap a man with an ARP armband on the shoulder, he saw a notice: “Be alert for spies. Report all suspicious behavior.”
Did asking what station one was in count as suspicious behavior? He didn’t see why it would be—he could claim he’d got off at the wrong stop or something—but he’d already made an error about the hat. What if there was something else suspicious about his clothes? He’d better not do anything to attract attention to himself.
And it was more important to find out the date and the station. The name would be posted out on the platform. He started in the direction of the To the Trains arrow, and then stopped and elbowed his way back to a bench, where an elderly man sat snoring, the newspaper he’d been reading open on his chest. “London Damaged by Bombs,” the headline read. He leaned closer